


Illumination

by halfbad_333



Category: Ivanhoe - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfbad_333/pseuds/halfbad_333
Summary: Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert is headed to England, with plans for his future firm in his mind.





	Illumination

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as a prologue to a longer work. The POV is primarily Brian's.

Brian gripped the scarred rail of the old ship tightly and leaned heavily against her side as he faced into the blast of cold salt spray. His hair, short as it was, flattened against his scalp and quickly grew wet. It felt good, despite the salt coating he was acquiring. It was a relief to feel the clean sharp wind against his face after the windless days they had spent under oar. The _Undefeated_ had seen better days; she groaned against the heavy weather like an old crone refusing to venture further into a stormy night. Although her once-gracious lines were battered she was still seaworthy if no longer battle-hardy, and it was clear that her old captain made a lucrative living from his ancient dromon. She had rare, generous holds originally designed for horse transport, and made regular passages carting cargo, pilgrims, and other travelers between the Outremer and the West. Not many ships were capable of such long journeys and so much cargo, and the greedy old bastard knew her worth. And he was the only captain willing to challenge the weather when Brian had reached the port at Acre, the newly established capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The passage fee he had offered proved an irresistible temptation. Of course, the cursed apostate insisted on the right to gather more passengers and cargo during the ship’s inevitable port calls, so the journey was tedious and frustrating. And the damned erratic winter weather made it even slower and more torturous. A land journey would have been preferable, but even if the roads over the mountains were passable it would be slower and more dangerous given the season.

He was headed for England: a primitive country he had never visited nor ever desired to discover, across this unpredictable, wild sea, on a contraption of a ship. His first voyage; a penance that had not been required during his youth in France or his years in the East defending the True Faith. Brian scowled at the thought of the long journey he had endured so far and that which still lay ahead. He had quickly learned that sailing was his least favorite mode of transportation. A donkey or a camel—lowly and unpleasant beasts that they were—would be vastly preferable to this nauseating, lurching, odorous, and creaky vessel.

He was headed for England at the behest of his Grand Master; to serve a man he did not admire but who, it was hoped, would be willing to permit the Order to establish itself more firmly in his _soi-disant_ domain. King Richard of England might prefer crusading to the tiresome task of managing his kingdom, but his brother John was a clever, pragmatic man who looked to his own interests and increased his power at home. The Order hoped to benefit from his rule. John's older brother Richard had fought fiercely and well for many years, and the Templars had been proud to fight at his side. But Richard had made truce with Saladin, infidel leader of the Order’s sworn enemy. He had handed over the city of Jerusalem against the combined will of France, Germany, and Austria, and had betrayed its King, Conrad of Montferrat. Richard’s loyalists claimed that regaining control of the seaports of Outremer was a victory, and a clever strategy to keep a Christian hold in the Holy Lands, but in the eyes of Brian and his Templar brethren it was treachery. They would have fought to the death rather than forfeit the King and the Holy City. And after Conrad’s inevitable assassination they no longer owed Richard their fealty. Thus, Richard’s recent capture and current imprisonment did not sorely grieve the Order of the Temple.

“All for naught, the years of brutal battle we and so many others fought, the many souls lost and lives destroyed,” Brian brooded over the betrayal. “Man and beast, property and wealth, pain and grief, holy sites, loyalties, valiant expectations—all treated as of no consequence, given up as easy sacrifice to the ruthless infidel.”

The Templar Order now looked to Prince John, reigning in England in his royal brother’s stead, to make the decision as to whether the Order of Solomon’s Temple would gain more power and property in England. And Brian, who had planned quietly and purposefully to become the next chosen Grand Master of his Order, was given the “honor” of official liaison from the Order to John and his court. He knew his exile from the center of the Order’s power was likely the machination of his fellow-knight Gregory Mt. Fontaine, who had similar ambitions. But he did not fight the assignment, for he saw its long-term potential. “Unlike Mt. Fontaine,” Brian thought sourly, “who can hardly understand the advantages and disadvantages of rising from the left or right side of his bed each morn.”

Brian understood what he could gain with this post, backwater though it was. It might lengthen his planned timeline, but it would be a vital step in his assumption of the position of Grand Master. In his view and personal experience most of his fellow knights were fools or worse. He had little respect for their understanding of wider-world events or even their daily decisions. Without peer in battle, their interests were limited to their next skirmish, the tedious daily routine of prayer and training, and the unlikely opportunity to prove that the Order would finally accomplish what crusaders had spent the last two hundred years and more striving, dying, and killing for: the defeat of the infidels and restoration of the Christian lands that had been conquered through persistent incursion, murder, and betrayal.

As Brian’s thoughts continued down this familiar vein his lean, dark face grew grimmer. Richard had achieved a dubious and temporary truce with Saladin at the end of this last Crusade, but would it even last the three years of the agreement? Brian had doubts that this was the end of Christianity's struggle to destroy its enemies. There had been many truces and breaks between the wars over the years, none lasting. It was safe to assume that the Templars would be required to protect the Cross for many years to come—and he held his own vision of his place within the Templar hierarchy, and what he could achieve and attain within its powerful ranks.

Brian’s long-term private horizon was far reaching, but for now it was limited to shifting, endless vistas of salt water. When the wind was fresh and following, the ship sank and rose sharply between steep waves. The spray soaked him, and his cloak grew icy cold. On calm days he found the voyage equally unpleasant. For the first time in his life he longed for the interminable heat of the desert and the damned sand that had penetrated every corner and fold of his body and clothing. Ironically, the sea reminded him of his early Templar days, fighting in the vast desert east of Damascus as a young squire. “Even those endless, dry, moving drifts, that merciless sun and lack of water would be preferable to this unstable landscape,” he brooded. “This is just as endless, just as parched—though certainly not dry. When the weather is fair the sun beats down on this deck as harshly as it did on those glaring sands, but at least the desert was clean, without the reeking stench of this ship. I am hardened to the sun, but not to this heaving water.” Brian tried to keep his eyes on the horizon as much as possible as it eased his discomfort to a small degree.

He slept on deck. The thin pad of his mantle was all that he required, for he was used to harsh conditions. Indeed, despite its drawbacks of wet and chill, the fresh open upper deck was greatly preferable to the crowded, odorous lower deck.

The _gal_ _é_ _rien_ , chained to their benches, droned their chants whether they pulled oars during the calm or hauled lines to shift sail when the wind blew. The monotony of their voices added to his annoyance. “Those damned, droning infidels—I could easily kill them without a second thought,” he thought to himself. “But now is not an opportune time to be killing infidels, desirable though that might be. Not when they serve to move this cursed ship to our destination.” He scowled into the darkness ahead.

His own Saracen, Amir, had also never traveled in such a conveyance or even beyond his own arid lands, but faced the voyage with equanimity. His placidity grated on Brian. He was not sure what was more irritating: that he despised this sea voyage and had become uncomfortable immediately upon setting sail, or that Amir was oblivious to its discomforts and found it a novelty. Brian mostly stayed on the foredeck, which he found uncomfortable but somewhat more tolerable, while Amir mostly remained out of the weather in the relative warmth of the aft deck shelter, caring for their mounts, enjoying the conversation of their fellow passengers, and bringing Brian his meals. Brian desired neither the company of strangers or the food, which he usually threw overboard once Amir turned away and returned to the shelter.

Brian, uncharacteristically, felt comfortable with his slave, whom he had unexpectedly acquired during a visit to Tyre years ago. His intention had been to skirt the slave market as he pursued the Order’s business, but he found himself annoyed by the dealer’s loud, lavish description of the slave on the block: his expertise with horses, his experience as the personal servant of a high commander, his knowledge of languages. “A virtual paragon,” Brian had thought skeptically, “easily disproved.” His automatic antagonism drew him to the front of the crowd to challenge the extravagant description. He arrogantly interrogated the young slave, expecting to embarrass the slave dealer. To his reluctant surprise he found that Amir capably provided detailed answers to his questions and offered insights that only a true expert would know. Brian found himself leaving the slave market with a purchase, and it did not take long before Amir became his sole retainer. He preferred Amir’s efficient, obedient service to the Templar knight’s usual prerogative of maintaining a squire and attendant or two from the service orders. Amir had been with Brian for almost a decade. He understood and met Brian’s demanding standards and expectations and, perhaps more importantly, his temperament. He respected Brian’s intelligence but pitied him his general disposition. Brian was generally dour and unhappy, but he was honest and treated those few he considered worthy fairly, whatever their station. Amir felt respected by his master though he was but a lowly slave. He was remarkably efficient. His dark unreadable features hid a clever soul who usually knew how to calm Brian’s ill humors and when to leave him to his own devices. More often than Brian realized, Amir smoothed their path and the ruffled tempers left in their wake.

Brian hoped that his isolation kept his fellow passengers unaware of his physical discomfort, as it mortified him to show such weakness. He felt no loss of companionship as he had always been a solitary man, and rarely made conversation for no reason. These were not people he would engage in idle talk at any rate. He had nothing to say to commoners and merchants, and his daunting visage did not encourage friendly overtures from strangers. His sun-darkened features and the scars he carried announced his years of battle in the scorching heat of the Holy Lands. He was not a young man and the beard his Order required was lightly fringed with gray, but his thick dark hair and strong, graceful body proved he was still in his prime. His intense, cold gray eyes and lowered brows gave him a menacing look even in repose, and his narrow, expressive face habitually displayed a scowl. Crew and passengers alike steered clear of him, and he of them. Most likely they were just as pleased as he to have little of his company.

Brian glanced upwards from his vantage point on the foredeck, hoping for a sign that the overcast was lessening. The opaque clouds offered nothing but the promise of more rain. He longed to see the stars, his one consolation on this journey and wherever he spent a sleepless night. When the other passengers were astern in the stifling shelter a form of timelessness settled on the upper deck. On clear calm nights, he leaned against the forward mast and watched the sharp points of light in the black sky slowly shift east as the ship progressed west. The Milky Way lay thick and deep across the dark velvet heavens, a motionless backdrop to the shimmering stars. While he gazed upward his queasiness would subside, and a rare peace would overtake him. He took little interest in the moon, whose fickle face changed daily as she coyly turned to show her profile or hid completely. "Unreliable and vain, just like a woman," he thought. He vastly preferred the calm offered by the distant, constant stars, whether he was in the silent, seemingly endless desert, on the roof of his monastery, or here, at sea, on a clear night.

Brian was used to little sleep in the best of circumstances. He often awakened from unpleasant and violent dreams: unsettling echoes of past battles and violent encounters. Sleeping would be impossible altogether in the covered quarters of the ship’s shelter amidst the odorous company and tedious conversations of the men, the stench of pitch and rot and waste, and the creaking and banging of cargo and the old wooden planks of the ship as it bore against the seas. The few hours he caught on the upper deck suited his needs.

He reflected sardonically that he did not possess the ideal personality to play ambassador if the Order was hoping to charm this courtly, clever English prince, but he was confident that he was up to the charge despite his natural inclinations. “I will be able to manage well enough.” He reassured himself. “I can flatter superiors with the best of them—haven’t I been doing so for most of my twenty-some years in the Order? John is shrewd and certainly better at statesmanship and managing his realm than Richard. And despite his reputation, he is apparently no more perfidious than his older brother. I am sure I can work with him for my Order’s benefit. I doubt that even he will discern any insincerity on my part.”

Brian's thoughts strayed from his current surroundings and plans. He had to admit that he missed Palestine, though he could not honestly tell himself that he had ever been content there. He dismissed that passing reflection almost immediately as inconsequential. He knew his restless soul was never happy, though sometimes in the heat of battle he was exultant. And in some rare moments he felt close to contentment—when between wars there was some peace; when he could spare precious time from training and prayer to visit the library of the Order’s lay brothers or the vast neighboring libraries of other residents in the ancient holy cities. In those sanctuaries he could lose himself in shelves of books and piles of scrolls and manuscripts, in the succoring scent of leather and vellum, parchment and dust. The deep quiet of other souls in contemplation and the promise of knowledge helped him to calm ambition and dark memories. He tilted his head towards the shrouded sky and smiled sardonically at these thoughts. He was rarely able to indulge in such luxury. He was a fighting man, not destined for scholarly studies. His fellow knights sneered at his scholarly inclinations, but those experiences were isolated treasures among his more common memories of death, violence and battle, and tedious internal politics and strife. They were his small, private, treasured gems, sparsely set on his gouged and bloody scabbard of experience. He had rare opportunity for such contentment, and always remained restless, cynical, angry.

Brian’s face grew tight when he thought of the libraries the Crusaders had destroyed over the years. Greek, Latin, Persian, Hebrew, Aramaic: what knowledge had they contained? He had not had the time to find out. Indeed, it never crossed his mind during battle, when he was surrounded by death and blood and mad violence, even when such books were nearby. It was one reason why he held becoming Grand Master his goal once Robert de Sablé relinquished the post, as many believed he planned to do in the not-too-far distant future. Most of the knight-monks who attained the position were shrewd soldiers and sometimes brilliant tacticians, but many were illiterate, and none placed much importance on intellectual accomplishment. Indeed, many thought it unnecessary and even sinful to indulge in such pursuits when their true purpose of conquest was not yet achieved. As Grand Master he might have access to those books, perhaps could even have some gathered before destruction. They could bring the Order unfathomable power. And he could change the Order in so many other ways, to become more efficient and deadly in war, less inclined to the foolish mistakes that had led Gerard de Ridefort to disaster for the Templars and Christendom at Cresson and Hattin and Jerusalem itself.

Brian grimaced into the gloom, commanding such unwelcome thoughts from his mind. He was feeling queasy enough without inviting mental discomfort. Best to avoid thoughts that could lead to no satisfactory or immediate resolution. The ship would arrive in England. He would be met by Church dignitaries or fellow Templars. The ship’s slaves would unload his horses, gear, and gifts, and they would head for Prince John’s court. Best to keep his mind on practical matters near at hand and avoid thoughts that led only to discontent, despair, and desolation. Dwelling on them never served him well, he reminded himself. He looked out over the churning waves, held tightly to the wet, cold rail, and looked ahead, in the direction of his destination.


End file.
